Sphinx of Gold ■*> 



BY FRANKLYN W. LEE. 




The Sphinx of Gold: 

AND OTHER SONNETS. 



13 



lz 



By FRANKLYN W. LEE 



The post, 

% S '* J RUSH CITY., 

/I MINN. 



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©*t* sphinx of (&&1&+ 

IS it so wise to make a sphinx of gold, 
To be adored by those, who, lacking grace, 
Flaunt satins in the pauper's care-worn face? 
For some day, like the mystic sphinx of old, 
It will propound a riddle, and the bold, 

The weak and tawdry will abate their pace 
And cease to think of jewels, silk and lace: 
As from those yellow lips, so stern and cold, 
These words will come: "I was the first, the end, 

Yet not the end, for mine beginneth here; 
I bought the greater, yet have less to spend; 

Worthless am I, that once was held so dear; 
Man's greatest shield, I can no more defend." 
And such shalliisten, dumb with fear. 



&& it x& p*rtttim+ 

THE sins of nations are like sins of man, 
And bring their punishment. When conscience dies 
In any people; when fair justice lies 
Like any gold-bought wanton; when the plan 
Of liberty is hampered for a span 

Of time while freedom chafes and seeks to rise; 
When sordid policy directs the wise, 
And gross and gilded Mammon leads the van, 
The nation sins. ]t is the law that sin 

Must be atoned for, and the mass must pay 
Its debt. If not, why should the unit win 

The wrath of God and face the Judgment Day? 
God is not partial in His discipline, 

And oft has swept a sinful race away. 



SOME people in their dooryards proudly stand 
And cry: "This is the world!" and strive to guide 
All things into their narrow groove. Thsy pride 
Themselves upon keen wisdom, and demand 
That they shall rule supreme on every hand. 
Yet Babylon went down and Carthage died; 
Rome sank to sleep and Hellas could not hide: 
Atlantis was engulfed, and Egypt's land 
Lost all its glory. We are little more 

Than they, and something less, and even so 
Shall we be swallowed in the awful roar 

Of ages, and leave little here to show 
That we existed. Thus it was before 

And shall be as the races come and go. 



&he ltoma*J*iitg« 

DEAR God, vouchsafe thy wondrous pity when 
This fleeting masquerade of ours is o'er, 
And we can hide our inner selves no more. 
We sorely need Thy pity now; but then 
When Truth has forced the bosom's secret den 

And torn the bandage from each unknown sore; 
When we shall know who lied, who calmly bore 
A hidden burden; whom of two was wren, 
The other hawk; the secrets of the dumb — 

Ah, then shall kingly Self in anguish fall 
To grovel in the dust as torments come 

In Truth's white livery to one and all, 
And deep humiliation be the sum 

Of all things here, and men on Thee shall call. 



BIRTH is no accident — God sends us here 
To live appointed lives, in which we aim 
To cure the errors of the past, reclaim 
Oui souls, prepare to win that higher sphere 
From which we sank in some forgotten year. 
Environment and circumstance, the shame 
Of poverty, misjudgment, passion's flame — 
All these were ordered and designed to clear 
Our souls of pride, that we might rise once more 

To that proud state from which we fell, swift hurled, 
When angel legions down upon us bore 

To snatch the rebel fiag we had unfurled, 
And, having won the battle, drove us o'er 
The brink as exiles to a lesser world. 



pmi '0 the $$i&p. 



IT gleams before me and I give it chase, 
The while my eager heart, in hope, contends 
That what I see is Truth, and so defends 
The shifty light; but, though at headlong pace 
I rush in search of its abiding place, 

I seek in vain: the way grows steep, descends, 
Abruptly turns and into marshes wends, 
Or where the brambles thickly interlace. 
But, even like the Jew whom Christ bade stay 

Until He came, so must I wander on 
In quest of that which seems to say me nay, 
Yet lures me by the hope I feed upon — 
Shines brightly now and lights me on my way, 
So cunningly eludes and fades anon. 



(&o&& &lcin0gvam&+ 

SAD stories are the monograms of God. 
The heart may sink beneath a weight of woe; 
Disease may make the weary hours so slow 
That mutiny is roused the while we plod; 
Dead hopes may lie beneath a barren sod, 

And all our fairest dreams, with their brave show, 
In empty vapor fade. And yet, we know 
That God is good, and just: His chastening rod 
Afflicts us sorely, but with kind intent; 

For in the stripes His monogram appears 
And stamps the soul with right development, 

So that, when we set forth for higher spheres, 
Each has a passport, by the Master sent, 

To take him yonder, where there are no tears. 



©ft* igUmmrfatixm* 

WHAT thoughts weighed down upon the Nazarene, 
In Pilate's court, that day of rue and gloom, 
When those whom He had sought to save from doom 
Barabbas chose? Was anguish e'er as keen 
As that which marked the Christ-refusing scene? 
For He had toiled, with God's own perfect loom, 
To weave a web-like curtain for the tomb 
Through whose fair mesh the after-life serene 
Might be discerned; and then — oh, bitter thought, 

The Holy One who was of all men shief 
Was set aside as one who counts for naught, 

The mob demanding freedom for a thief! 
The Cross to Him was merciful — it brought 

Release from heartless man, and sweet relief. 



®mi&&x0n. 



WHEN all is over and we stand aside — 
Unseen, unheard, unfelt, — while others weep 
Above a form that lies in seeming sleep, 
The greatest punishment no Satan's pride 
Will need w point out. There will come a tide 
Of recollection, and the waves will leap 
To crush us with the vows we did not keep, 
The smiles ungiv'n, the kisses oft denied, 
Caresses killed, good deeds withheld from men, 

Ingratitude to God — and we shall kneel 
And pray for hell as drawn by Dante's pen 

As being easier borne, the while we feel 
The cruel barbs of things undone, and ken 

How much we lost in slighting others' weal. 



SIN does not always wear the tawdry gown 
Of Vice— ah, no, despite the Pharisee, 
His narrow creed and icy homily. 
The wanton prudes who turn aside and frown 
Whene'er a sinner passes by are down 

Much further in the scale of worth than she; 
For God is merciful and just, and He 
Oft gives the broken penitent a crown; 
But lack of charity, self worship, pride 

Are sins much greater in the mystic Eye 
And therefore win no pardon. Men have died 
In saintly odor who were scorned on high, 
While outcast penitents have sat beside 

The whiterobed angels, for they lived no lie. 



gtarma* 

{LIKE the word. It often reconciles 
The baffling inequalities of life. 
For Karma means that one who sends a knife, 
By passion sped, and life's fair spark exiles, 
Though he may mask his inward guilt with smiles 
And die unscathed, will find the heavens rife 
With accusations sounding like the strife 
Of war between the devil's sable filss. 
He cannot shun the awful punishment; 

And no less, too, shall he escape who aims 
To rob his fellow man of sweet content. 

Or cozens him, deprives of faith, defames — 
For such there is a hell of wide extent, 

Made up of earth-lives rather than of flames. 



^ffinittr. 

SOMETIMES we know it not, but there exists 
A clay-clad soul in duplicate of each 
Of us, whate'er the skeptical may teach; 
And he who, groping through earth's baffling mists, 
Encounters it, new-armored seeks the lists 
Of life. The happiness so few can reach 
Is his, and none its sweetness may impeach; 
For perfect love, which otherwise resists 

Man's crafty lures, is born of two made one 
By joining souls which once were far astray. 

Yet passion does not make the weld. 'T is done 
By deep affinity, although today 

Men worship passion as men did the sun, 
While pure affinity is laughed away. 



THIS world is not a play-ground; were it so, 
Life would become so charged with weariness 
That men woa'd kill thsmselves to gain access 
To sorrow's realm, and pray to feel the blow 
Misfortune holds in store, that they might know 
The value of Life's joy; for pain, distress, 
Bereavement and the hours all comfortless 
Are umbers well designed to better show 
The lights and high-lights of our earthly days. 
The shadows are essential, and they bring 
Appreciation of the brighter ways 

We find anon to gladden us; the sting 
Accentuates the joy that soon allays 

The pain, and sad hours boon take lighter wing. 



IT is not best to be so quick of tongue 
To mark the weaknesses we may perceive 
In others, nor to calmly disbelieve 
Another's purpose as you coldly prowl among 
His daily acts; to scorn the hard-earned rung 

His feet have reached; to stoop to slyly weave 
A mesh of gossip which must pain and grieve. 
There is no cleverness in having stung 
A fellow creature for the stinging's sake. 

God knows our weaknesses, and He will weigh 
Them all in time and measure each mistake 

Or ill design; and, on the judgment day, 
Will judge 'twixt those who left a slimy wake 
And those who, all unthinking, went astray. 



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